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It was another sleepless night.
Yet Ian felt no fatigue or drowsiness at all. He returned once more to the Room of Requirement, continuing his careful experimentation with potion-making, seeking to further refine the elusive Prince’s Magical Power Revival Potion.
As it stood, the current iteration of the Prince’s Magical Power Revival Potion could not permanently rekindle the magical core of a Squib. Even if a Squib consumed the entire bottle, it would only sustain a temporary reactivation of their magic for a limited number of cycles. Clearly, it had yet to achieve the flawless, everlasting revival effect that Ian so keenly pursued.
While this potion could become his most lucrative creation, for a true potioneer like Ian, choosing not to brew a permanent magic-restoring Potion was a matter of personal choice, but failing to do so was utterly unacceptable.
Maximising Galleons was a matter for businessmen. But to truly and irreversibly revive a Squib’s magic? That was the work of a wizard worthy of being called a master of the craft.
“There must be a method, and such a method, within the framework of ‘Magical Awakening,’ could even extend to love potion theory. I might be able to improve Professor Morgan’s Heartstring Elixir in the process.”
“I only wonder whether concocting a love potion with lifelong effects would cause an uproar in the Department of Magical Ethics.”
“Some would argue that enduring effects still count as love if mutually accepted. Others would claim it to be a vile mockery of free will.”
“Well, as the old saying goes: the potion is not to blame, it is the intent of those who wield it. If two lovers willingly take such a potion together…”
“…then it could be given another name, one imbued with beauty and meaning.”
Ian pondered purely from the academic and professional angle of potion-making. He held no personal interest in love potions that bound hearts for life.
After all,
The young wizard had already glimpsed what he would look like as a grown man. Whether by charm or skill, he was quite confident that both would prove far more effective than any love Potion.
Bubble Bubble~
The cauldron atop the enchanted hearth emitted a steady rhythm of bubbling.
Researching a potion’s effect was no simple endeavour. Ian did not expect a breakthrough overnight. He needed to exhaust a vast array of magical ingredients and combinations to prolong the potion’s efficacy.
It was a process destined to be slow and repetitive.
Much like the routine of a Magical Materials scholar.
But Ian was delighted by it.
[You have brewed with care. Potioneering Proficiency +3]
[You have brewed with care. Potioneering Proficiency +2]
[You have brewed with care. Potioneering Proficiency +3]
…
After all, he was still accumulating skill and experience. By the time morning dawned, his “Potioneering Proficiency” had crept ever closer to the threshold of advancement. With just a few more days of effort, he might see it level up.
“Extraordinary traits are all well and good, but what I truly seek now are Legendary traits,” Ian murmured. He already possessed several level-seven skills, and within a year or two, his first legendary trait might finally awaken. Extraordinary traits had already allowed him to surpass most of his peers. So it stood to reason that legendary traits would be exponentially more powerful and rarer still.
[Flame Journey (Level 7) 87/6400]
[Linguistic Command (Level 7) 154/6400]
[Transfiguration (Level 7) 341/6400]
With a bit of luck, perhaps a fortunate encounter, or proper mentorship, Ian believed the time needed to awaken a legendary trait could be greatly shortened.
Naturally, as long as he remained a student of Hogwarts, continuing his studies under Professor Morgan in the Twilight Realm, his progress would never stagnate.
Before he had met his teacher and stepped into Hogwarts, it had taken him years, and no small amount of cunning, to awaken just two Extraordinary traits. That was likely the difference between coming from nothing and being guided by legacy.
“In the future, I might get by with only three or four hours of sleep a night. I’ll devote the rest to learning. The more magic I master, the greater my energy becomes. No wonder powerful wizards can live beyond two centuries with ease.”
Ian, despite staying awake all night, still felt remarkably refreshed.
He gave instructions to the Dementor, a peculiar one that had been semi-domesticated, and watched as the creature donned its janitorial uniform and began tidying the room. Satisfied, Ian stepped lightly out of the Room of Requirement.
Outside.
Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows of the castle. It was a rare clear morning in winter, casting a golden hue over the frost and adding a touch of warmth to the biting cold.
As he descended the spiral staircase, Ian spotted Filch in the corridor. The caretaker stood hunched and despondent, staring mournfully into a rusting iron bucket as though the meaning of life might be lurking at the bottom.
“It seems being reduced to a Squib once again has struck him harder than anyone imagined.”
Ian passed quietly behind the man. But just a few steps beyond, he was startled by a sharp scream, followed by a deafening blast.
BOOM!
A violent explosion echoed through the corridor.
Ian spun around at once with his wand drawn in an instant. But no Death Eaters had appeared, no shadowy threats loomed. Instead, he saw Filch sprawled across the stone floor, unmoving.
It was like déjà vu.
The iron bucket that had been blasted into the air came clanging down from the ceiling, and Filch’s legs gave a feeble twitch before he passed out once again, the corridor reeked of poorly brewed magical combustibles.
“?????”
Watching the younger students panic, some shouting for help, others sneakily giving Filch a nudge with their foot, Ian’s expression became a complex mix of exasperation and disbelief.
“Did this daft codger seriously think his magic had returned because he got blown up by an enchanted bucket?” Ian noted that Filch had placed the bucket in exactly the same spot as the day before.
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry… but he had a sinking feeling he might be right. Filch had grossly underestimated the volatile nature of magically-infused powder. His injuries today looked far worse than yesterday’s.
Yesterday, he’d still had a leg twitch or two. Today, he looked positively lifeless.
“Did he try to off himself?”
Ian crouched down and checked for a pulse.
“He is barely breathing… hanging on by a thread.”
It seemed the old caretaker was exhaling far more than he was inhaling.
“Who’s going to carry him to the hospital wing?”
After a beat of hesitation, Ian pulled a weak restorative Potion from his robes and gently tipped it into Filch’s mouth. Then, watching the crowd of wide-eyed students scatter like startled pixies, he decided to be a little more assertive.
“Oy! You lot, yes, you, take him to the hospital wing, now!” Ian snagged a few burly Slytherins by the collar. Not only had he just saved Filch’s life, but he also gave the Slytherins a spot of early morning exercise.
A win for Filch, a win for Ian, and, depending on your perspective, a win for the reluctant volunteers.
Once he’d watched the Slytherins haul Filch away like a sack of Flobberworms, Ian resumed his stroll toward the Great Hall. With fewer students vying for the good breakfast options, this might actually be another small victory.
“This,” Ian muttered with a smirk, “is wisdom.”
The students who had remained at Hogwarts for the holidays were now trickling into the Great Hall, and Ian was among them. Upon entering, he immediately noticed that the number of students had grown since the previous day.
Some had finally been coaxed out of their cosy common rooms by the fair weather, while others had returned from their Christmas visits home.
Of the four houses, Ravenclaw boasted the largest turnout, while Gryffindor lagged behind. Likely, the Ravenclaws were worried their fellow housemates had spent the holidays secretly studying and gaining an advantage.
That sort of anxiety was common among the eagles.
Some of them couldn’t even relax over Christmas, fearing that by the time they returned, someone else might’ve climbed ahead academically. And the truth was, they were often right.
It wasn’t just the holidays when others tried to get ahead. It was constant. One student might claim they were heading off to watch the Quidditch match, only to be found secretly poring over Advanced Rune Theories.
There was even the well-known tale of a senior Ravenclaw who, while in the middle of a shouting match with his Gryffindor girlfriend, still managed to flip through his revision notes. It had become a “motivational legend” in Ravenclaw common room lore.
Of course, to the Gryffindor girl in question, it was probably more of a bitter anecdote shared over cocoa and complaints.
“Oi, check out the new toy I brought from home.”
“It’s the latest model broomstick! You’ll be the talk of the pitch after the break.”
“Anyone brave enough to try my mum’s pie? She got the idea from “Every Flavour Beans”, there’s a chance you’ll bite into one that tastes like fresh sheep dung!”
“You sure your mum didn’t just fill it with real dung?”
“Why d’you think I brought it here instead of eating it myself, eh?”
…
The winter chill hadn’t managed to freeze the students’ energy.
The Great Hall was as lively as ever.
Four long tables ran down the centre, as always.
Each table was dressed in crisp white linens, embroidered at the corners with golden thread, shimmering faintly under the hovering candles and reflecting the light of enchanted sconces and moving portraits that lined the walls. The air was thick with the delicious aromas of baked breads, hearty soups, warm vegetables, and enchanted puddings that danced slightly on their plates.
“Why’s everyone looking at me like I’ve sprouted antlers?” Ian asked as he walked toward the table where Aurora was seated. He spotted Daphne Greengrass and her friend hastily shoving something in their mouths before making a swift exit.
“Didn’t sleep well last night, maybe?”
Daphne trembled when Ian caught her by surprise, her face twisted into an expression of startled dread. She took a few wary steps back, much like a skittish fawn.
“Yeah, yeah. Didn’t sleep well,” She mumbled.
Miss Selwyn, her friend, didn’t look much better. She avoided Ian’s eyes altogether, her gaze jittery, like she expected him to hex her without warning.
“This is very odd.”
Ian watched as the two girls fled the Great Hall like they’d seen a Banshee. Then he glanced around and realised they weren’t the only ones acting strangely.
All across the room, students were giving him sidelong glances.
Expressions ranging from confused to awestruck flickered across dozens of faces. Ian mentally combed through his actions over the past two days, but he was certain he hadn’t done anything too conspicuous.
He was honestly quite ready for a break from the loops and had been making a point of keeping a low profile.
“Why are you looking at me like that too?” Ian asked as he dropped into the seat beside Aurora. The German girl’s bizarre tea-brewing ritual from last night still lingered unpleasantly in his memory.
“Not just us, the professors are doing it too.” Aurora kept her head down, eating from her plate piled high with golden fried eggs, crispy sausages, and toast thick with blackberry jam. She was never one to fuss; whatever appeared on her plate, she ate without complaint.
Ian, of course, was rather more particular.
He loaded his own plate with roast beef, thick-cut bacon, and more sausages, clearly in pursuit of a protein-heavy breakfast. Even the porridge he sipped was no ordinary fare, it was a special congee of pickled quail egg and finely shredded wyvern meat, freshly prepared each morning by the ever-dedicated house-elves.
“Honestly… What’s so strange about me?”
Between bites, Ian glanced toward the staff table.
Only Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout were present this morning. Both were watching him with peculiar expressions on their faces, leaning toward one another as though whispering something confidential.
Professor McGonagall looked especially troubled.
Professor Sprout, meanwhile, seemed more stunned than suspicious. The moment she noticed Ian’s eyes on her, she quickly turned away, avoiding his gaze like a guilty third-year caught nicking Gillyweed from the greenhouses.
“Have they all somehow found out about the miraculous potion I brewed?” Ian frowned, running through every event since escaping the time loop.
Nothing he’d done recently should’ve raised suspicion.
“Last night,” Aurora began, her tone cautious, “Several students, mostly pure-bloods and a few high-achievers, had very strange dreams. They all had one thing in common.”
She glanced sideways at Ian.
“They all featured you.”
Ian blinked. That sinking feeling in his stomach began to grow.
“What did they dream about?”
“Some remembered more clearly than others. Like me, I remember mine perfectly.” Aurora raised a hand and began ticking off fingers as she spoke.
“People said you kept a Dementor chained under your bed and used it to scare students in their sleep. Others dreamed you blasted holes through half the school with cursed cauldrons.”
She paused for dramatic effect.
“Daphne and her friend swore they saw you tying Marcus Flint to a broomstick, dousing it in Firewhisky, setting it alight, and launching him across the Astronomy Tower.”
“And then you threatened them, said if they told anyone, you’d make them the first wizards to land on the moon.” Aurora gave Ian a pointed look. Clearly, she’d gathered all this before breakfast.
“…”
Ian’s face twitched.
Merlin’s beard.
Every one of those things were something he’d done in the time loops, just before each reset. How on earth had those memories manifested as dreams in the minds of Hogwarts students?
“What about you?” He asked warily. “What did you dream about?”
Something was definitely wrong.
He had done things far worse than those mentioned. If even half of those got out, his reputation, which is already shaky, would be utterly shattered.
“I dreamed about you using my wand to pick noses… the noses of magical beasts in the Forbidden Forest. You claimed you were gathering mucus samples for potions.”
Aurora shuddered slightly, as though just recalling the nightmare.
“They are dreams. Just dreams. They are not real at all.” Ian buried his head over his plate, shovelling food in as if it would shield him from reality. Deep down, he suspected this was yet another prank left behind by Salazar Slytherin’s cursed legacy. The time loop wasn’t supposed to leave traces…
“No,” Aurora said suddenly. “I don’t think they were just dreams.”
Ian’s knife paused mid-slice.
“It felt more like… a shared vision. A mass prophecy, maybe. I need to check something when I return to the library.”
Luckily, the German witch hadn’t guessed the true cause.
Ian exhaled silently in relief, though mentally he cursed Salazar Slytherin’s portrait, portrait-frame, descendants, and familiar. If this was some founder’s joke, it had gone too far. His cheeks burned with embarrassment just imagining the gossip that would follow.
Rumours weren’t the worst part.
The worst part was they were true. He had actually done all of those things. Was this punishment from the founder? This was supposed to be a controlled magical trial, why had it turned into a magical circus?
“Actually, I had a dream too,” Ian began, trying to blend in by pretending to share the experience like everyone else. Just as he opened his mouth,
Thudding footsteps echoed from the entrance of the Great Hall.
Snape stormed in, his black robes billowing like thunderclouds with his wand still in his hand, the sleeves and cuffs of his garments soaked in blood. He swept past the stunned students without a glance, heading straight for the staff table.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Dozens of students stared at him in horror. His wild-eyed appearance and bloodstains were enough to spark rumours on the spot, several whispered fears that he might have accidentally hexed a student into pieces.
“Silence!”
Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, stern as a whip crack, quelling the rising murmurs. She turned to Snape with narrowed eyes, her gaze lingering on the blood spatter across his robes.
“Something’s happened. Someone’s dead,” Snape murmured to Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout, his voice low and grim. Ian, ever curious, leaned in just enough to overhear, ears pricked like a Kneazle on the scent.
“What happened?”
Professor McGonagall stood up at once, her chair scraping softly against the stone floor.
“In the dungeons… I don’t know who’s responsible.”
Snape’s voice held a strange weight, something between alarm and restrained fury.
“Take me there.”
Exchanging a quick glance with Professor Sprout, McGonagall swept from the High Table, robes billowing behind her as she followed Snape at pace. Professor Sprout remained behind to maintain order in the Great Hall.
“Are there any Prefects still in the castle? Get the rest of the students out of the common rooms, quickly!” Professor Sprout snapped into action, her no-nonsense demeanour cutting through the rising tension like a blade. The young witches and wizards around her stiffened at once.
“What’s going on?”
“Did someone really die?”
“I told you something was off, probably a Banshee, or a rogue vampire!”
…
The students were on the verge of panic.
Aurora, however, remained curiously calm. She continued buttering a crumpet, barely glancing at the commotion, until she turned to speak and noticed Ian’s seat was now empty.
“Who died?”
Ian had, of course, slipped away.
He’d followed Snape and McGonagall, using a well-cast Disillusionment Charm to blend into the shadows, his footsteps soundless on the cold stone as they descended toward the dungeons. What greeted him there made his breath catch in his throat.
Lying outside the door to Snape’s office was a corpse.
The body was lifeless, its expression vacant, the eyes utterly devoid of light, and the torso… grotesquely torn open, as if something, or someone, had gutted it with clinical precision. The organs were gone. The very essence of life had been scooped from within.
“Merlin’s beard! It’s him!” Ian’s eyes widened in disbelief, his breath hitching audibly despite the charm.
Of all the possibilities, he’d been bracing himself to find Lockhart’s body. But instead, it was Quirinus Quirrell lying in that terrible state, a man often mocked, frequently dismissed, but still… not someone who should be dead. Not like this.
Not when he was meant to be hosting Voldemort.
He was supposed to be nearly unkillable. More elusive than a Hungarian Horntail in flight. More dangerous than all four Heads of House combined.
Unless…
Ian’s thoughts spun like a Whizzing Fizzbee in a hurricane.
“It’s a ritual of the darkest kind,” Grindelwald spoke calmly.
He still wore Lockhart’s face, his tone clinical as he crouched beside the body, inspecting the remains while Snape and McGonagall approached. His presence was quiet, but it drew the air from the room like a siphoning spell.
“Great Merlin…” McGonagall whispered, her voice trembling as she took in the brutal scene. “How could this have happened?”
“Quirrell’s clearly meddled in things beyond his control,” Snape said, every word soaked in accusation and distaste.
“Snape, you…”
McGonagall hesitated, casting a sidelong look at Grindelwald before returning her gaze to Snape, her lips pressed into a thin, uncertain line.
“He was still alive when it happened,” Grindelwald murmured, still analysing. He glanced briefly toward Ian, who remained unseen, then without warning, pulled back Quirrell’s bloodstained robes, exposing his unmarked back.
Smooth.
Bloodless.
Empty.
“You can’t! That’s a professor’s body, show some decency!” McGonagall looked away sharply, clearly horrified by the violation, her voice tight with disapproval.
But before Grindelwald could reply,
“No, this is all wrong!”
Snape suddenly reeled back, his usually composed expression melting into panic.
“I must inform the Headmaster immediately!”
He spun and bolted towards his office. Whatever secret magical contraption Snape had hidden there, it was clearly capable of contacting Dumbledore at once. His desperation was palpable.
“He’s gone…”
Ian finally understood Snape’s terror. He, too, knew the truth.
Voldemort should have been tethered to the back of Quirrell’s head.
But now?
Now, there was nothing.
No mark. No sign. No trace of the Dark Lord’s presence.
“What in Merlin’s name is happening?”
Ian didn’t move, but his mind was racing. As Grindelwald rose and passed by, he deftly slipped a folded scrap of parchment into Ian’s hand, subtle as a Niffler nicking gold.
“Another one of those sneaky manoeuvres…” Ian glanced at the magical shimmer of his Disillusionment Charm and sighed inwardly. He’d hoped that being ‘Extraordinary’ would somehow give his concealment an upgrade. So far, not much luck.
[Go to the Headmaster’s Office]
The note was written in neat, block letters.
He’d only made it a few steps away when the unmistakable sound of approaching boots echoed from the stairwell. A swarm of Aurors poured into the corridor, robes black as ink, faces stony with resolve.
They were an intimidating sight.
Their numbers were considerable.
“Professors, please remain exactly where you are,” The lead Auror barked. “This castle has been placed under Ministry lockdown. A trusted source has reported that Headmaster Albus Dumbledore may be implicated in a ritual murder involving dark magic.”
The speaker was none other than Cornelius Fudge, the newly minted Minister for Magic.
His tone was clipped. His face pale.
When his eyes landed on Quirrell’s mutilated corpse, he turned to McGonagall and Grindelwald with suspicion. His wand hand twitched.
“This isn’t what I wanted… but for everyone’s safety, I must ask for your complete cooperation,” He announced. With a raised hand, he signalled the Aurors.
They moved instantly to disarm Professor McGonagall and Grindelwald.
(End of Chapter)
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